


sleep when i'm dead

by brophigenia



Series: the one with the vampires [6]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Doppleganger!K, Ghost Noah Czerny, Grinding, Half-Vampire Gansey, Half-Vampires, M/M, Murder Feelings, Vampire Hunters, Vampire Proko, Vampire!Prokopenko, Vampires, Voyeurism, it's back, the one with the vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 17:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20894264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The vampire was wearing K's face.(AKA, Proko's dead boyfriend is back, andeveryone'sgonna be in trouble. With sexy results.)





	sleep when i'm dead

**Author's Note:**

> wow, it's been... several vampire-free months. 
> 
> title from price on my head by nav&the weeknd, cut lyrics from my chemical romance because i'm 100% that bitch(TM)

_i'll never let them_  
_i can't forget them. _   


_***_

The vampire was wearing his face, and Joseph Kavinsky had never been more furious in his entire life than when he watched his  _ own  _ lips curl into a fang-framed smirk, his  _ own  _ lashes bat obnoxiously, listened to his  _ own  _ voice speak. “Oh, Ilyusha, I  _ have  _ missed you.” The vampire said,  _ cooed,  _ in old-regime Russian. Barely understandable. 

Yakov.  _ Yasha.  _ Thinking of the helpless, adoring way Proko had called him that when he was close to death in his dorm room bathtub made K nauseous. Made him want to hurt somebody. Made him want to hurt  _ everybody.  _

(He’d never had anybody who was  _ only _ his; had dreamt about it for years, had seen Proko for the first time when he was fourteen and thought  _ that one, that one is mine.  _ Finding out that he was wrong was enough to make everything feel like it was on fire. 

It had been months, but the feeling never went away.) 

“Who the  _ fuck,”  _ he heard himself say, too-loud, graceless and losing control, of himself  _ and  _ the situation. “Do you think you’re fuckin’ talking to?” 

Yakov’s smirk turned into a grin, wide and blindingly white. His hair was longer than K kept his own, his clothes sharply-tailored and far away from K’s white wifebeater and unbuttoned floral short-sleeve shirt. He felt like a fucking  _ yokel,  _ a tourist, when he was supposed to be a king. 

(He was supposed to be a  _ king.)  _

“How  _ cute, _ Ilyusha.” Yakov said, as his eyes raked over every inch of K. Taking in  _ everything.  _ He was so smug, radiating amusement. It made K’s hands shake. “You’ve taken in a stray.” As if  _ Proko _ held the power, here. As if K was nothing but a shivering fucking  _ mutt, _ muddy-pawed and pitiful. 

“Yasha.” Proko said, quiet and serious, pleading and hushing.  _ Yasha,  _ like he must’ve said thousands of goddamn times in the  _ lifetimes _ they’d shared.  _ Yasha,  _ an endearment that speaks of all the history between them.  _ Yasha,  _ the word that made K’s entire goddamn life turn upside down. He hadn’t slept properly since he’d heard it, uneasy with his jealousy and his fear and his loathing. “How-  _ why _ are you here?” Not  _ fuck you, bitch.  _ Not  _ mind your own business.  _ Not even  _ leave now before I  _ kill _ you.  _

The betrayal was sharp as a switchblade to the ribs, and K let out a soft little surprised breath, weak with his underbelly exposed. Gutted. Too-telling, and  _ Yasha’s  _ eyes were bright with it. Enjoying himself. Enjoying  _ K.  _

“Fuck that,” K spat, too-loud. Too  _ everything.  _ A study in lack of restraint. In excess of humanity. “Leave.” It was an order, but not one with any kind of power behind it. The realization of his own weakness was almost enough to break him, but Joseph Kavinsky was not so weak that he couldn’t fake confidence, feign strength. 

Yakov blinked at him, slow and faintly surprised. Like maybe he didn’t think K possessed a spine. Haughty.  _ “Really, _ Ilya?” He asked, directing the question to Proko but not looking away from K. His lips twitched, like he thought it was fucking  _ funny.  _

K’s hate boiled, threatened to overflow. 

There was a bag of death beneath Skov’s dorm bed. He itched for it, now, for a wooden stake in his hand and his boys at his back. Didn’t know if he’d stop at  _ Yasha.  _ Proko was a traitorous statue, a  _ stranger.  _ K had never felt more human, more frail, more  _ furious.  _

“Say that to my fucking  _ face.”  _ He snapped, striding forward, until he and the vampire were sharing air. “You fucking  _ fuck.”  _ Inelegant, but effective. 

“No—“ Proko said, distant and concerned, behind them;  _ concerned for who?  _ K’s mind whispered, just as traitorous. Perfidy everywhere. He did not come here to be a frightened child; he did not leave his father’s house to feel as helpless as he did within its prison-like walls. 

Yakov’s hand wrapped around K’s throat, and there was nothing but his eyes, his  _ eyes,  _ burning and endless, nothing but that. Nothing but Yakov’s voice, in his ears or between them, maybe, because Yakov’s mouth did not move even while K could hear  _ you cannot breathe; your lungs are empty; you are drowning; you are nothing; you are  _ dying _ , little ghost.  _

Nothing but darkness. 

***

“Goddamn.” K rasped, one hand coming up to his neck even before he opened his eyes. 

Jiang was sitting at his bedside, intently texting with his elbows resting on his knees. He was wearing his Blade get-up, all black and leather straps and shitkicker boots, mouth flattened into a thin line. 

“Nothing’s broken.” He commented, not looking up, features lit only by the bluish white of his screen. He had an iPhone, the pretentious fuck, though K was clinging to his flip phone like a security blanket, pissy when it came to change. 

“Goddamn.” K said again, feeling like he’d gargled a mouthful of rusty nails. He balled up a fist and punched the mattress, using the momentum to help himself upright, swallowing back a wave of nausea. His mouth tasted like he’d bitten his tongue and then licked dirt; he wanted to  _ drink.  _ Wanted to get the taste out,  _ away.  _ “Where the fuck is he?” He demanded, not even sure if he meant Yakov or Proko. 

Jiang rose, stuffing his phone into one of the many pockets of his cargo pants and offering K a hand up. “With Skov and Swan. Waiting for us at Dick’s.” 

K blinked, nonplussed. “At  _ Dick’s.”  _ He repeated, trying to make sure that he’d heard correctly. “Dick  _ who?”  _

Jiang rolled his eyes, mother-henning his way to K’s dresser so he could start lobbing clean clothes at K with no small amount of force. “Dick Chaney, who the fuck do you  _ think  _ I mean?” 

K bared his teeth, stripping and heading for the shower. In the mirror his eyes were spectacularly bloodshot and his neck was black-bruised in the distinct shape of a handprint. He curled his own hand around it, watching the bruises disappear as they were covered by the hand that made them. 

“Hurry up, K!” Jiang called, gone back to texting, this time sitting on the edge of K’s unmade and vacant bed. “They’re waiting for us.” 

He gave himself one last dark look in the quickly-fogging mirror and then got beneath the spray, shivering as he remembered the night he and Proko and Lynch had been there, together. 

Everything about that night felt so far away, now. His fears and his lusts childlike in their simplicity. Before the invocation of that bastard wearing his face’s name. Everything had been even-footed, then. 

Not anymore. 

***

“You belong to  _ me.”  _ K whispered, pressed all along his front, hot and alive, hands curled around Proko’s wrists hard enough to bruise if  _ Proko _ was alive. “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker, and then I’m gonna fuck you on top of his fucking _ ashes,  _ Proko. You’re  _ mine.”  _

Proko shivered, arched, groaned. Wild, irises white, teeth sharp. K wanted those teeth. Wanted that bite. Wanted to feel it, and know that Proko was his,  _ only _ his. 

The meeting had been a crock of  _ shit,  _ focused more on the Greenmantle bitch and Sargent’s tele-psychic Sister-Aunt or whatever, not on the thing that had K messed up beyond recognition. He was no soldier, no hunter, uneven as he stood in militant black behind Jiang, who called the shots in this the way K called the shots in everything else. It was bullshit. It made him so angry, even though he knew it was  _ for the best.  _

Jiang knew strategy, knew  _ vampires,  _ knew how to keep them all alive. 

K didn’t want strategy. He didn’t want diplomacy. He wanted blood and fire and death; he didn’t much care who it came for, only that he could kill his double before it came for him, too. 

The Gansey Gang were all about strategy, though, even with Dick’s pretty mouth struggling to contain his fangboner as he tried to lisp about  _ Glendower  _ and  _ the cure.  _

Like there’s some kind of going back for him. Like that’s not just a kid’s story. 

_ “Tell _ me.” K demanded, needy and furious like he’d been in front of Yakov, fearless except for all the fears he was hiding beneath layers of bloodlust and vice. 

(Between them, he would’ve been the better monster. The better vampire. The better killer. As pitiless as his copy, as horrible as Yakov.) 

Proko nodded, fangs out, knowing he  _ shouldn’t,  _ knowing he  _ couldn’t,  _ because K was pale and red-eyed and  _ hurt,  _ but he  _ wanted to,  _ so badly. K pinned him in place despite the fact that he shouldn’t have been able to, and something long-dead plucked low in his gut as he looked in K’s eyes. Something like a sirebond, though that had died along with Yakov, screaming on the pyre. 

He was losing his mind. Still, he said it. “Yes, K, yes, you’re going to— I want you to do it. I want you to do it.” 

_“Say_ it,” K demanded, grinding their hips together. _“Tell_ _me_ what you want.” 

Damn him, but Proko would. “I want you to kill him and I want you to burn him and I want to taste his ashes as you  _ fuck me  _ right there where everyone can see, I want it, I want,  _ please—“  _ K released him, then, triumphant and glorious, wearing the bruises around his neck like a throatfull of rubies. 

Proko panted, pressed still against the wall, watching. Waiting. 

“I’m not going to touch you again until he’s dead.” K promised, all of his signature bravado and menace come together to create something  _ more,  _ teeth a little too sharp, eyes a little too knowing. 

Left alone, Proko fumbled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, lighting it with hands that trembled despite their ageless immortality. He sucked at its filter desperately, hating the taste but loving the way it tricked his mind into being calmer, steadier. 

“You shouldn’t smoke in here.” A soft voice said. Proko turned his head and found he was not alone. 

Noah Czerny, part ghost and part memory, watched him with an expression part curious and part sorrowful. Like he could not decide which to aim for. Like he’d been dead so long he could not figure out how to feign life again. 

Proko could relate. He laughed, humorless, and adjusted himself in his trousers. The ghost’s eyes followed the movement, keen and telling. A voyeur and a predator, both. 

“Who’s gonna stop me?” Proko asked, gesturing to the cavernously empty place that reeks of half-vampires and teenage angst and semen.  _ Monmouth Manufacturing.  _ What pretentiousness these bourgeois children played at. They spoke of a cure with strangled hope choking each word; Proko pitied them, and yet wanted to cackle at their skewed priorities, their naïveté. 

Yakov had come back from the grave. There would be rains of death and floods of fire. Whatever he had planned, it would be worse than anything the Greenmantle bitch had ever dreamt of conjuring up. 

“Did you mean it? What you said to Kavinsky.” Noah asked, curious, gone wispy like the majority of him was somewhere else. Like Proko was not interesting enough to pin him here. 

“It doesn’t matter what I  _ want.”  _ Proko shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette. “We are all going to die.” 

***

_ i'll never let them hurt you  _

_ i promise.  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
